Page 7 of Mountain Man's City Girl
I pour a cup, grateful for the warmth between my palms. "So where are we headed? The ridge you mentioned?"
"That's for later. First stop is a glade about two miles up. If we hurry, we'll catch the first light on the wildflowers."
"Wildflowers? In the Victor Myers guided tour package? I was expecting, I don't know, tactical survival bunkers or the bones of hikers who annoyed you."
This time he almost smiles. Almost. "Those are usually on day two. Today is just flowers and waterfalls."
"Was that a joke? From you? The sun isn't even up, and I've witnessed a miracle."
He shoulders his pack. "Let's go. We're burning starlight."
The trail is steep and narrow, winding through pine forest so dense that our headlamps barely cut through the darkness. Victor moves with the confidence of someone who could navigate this path blindfolded. I focus on not tripping over roots or my own feet, which is harder than it should be when I'm trying to catalog every detail of the journey.
"Slow down, Sasquatch," I call after fifteen minutes of practically jogging uphill. "Some of us have normal-length legs."
He pauses, turning back. In the dim light of dawn, his expression is unreadable. "You need a break?"
"No," I lie, breathing hard. "Just commenting on your freakish pace."
"We have thirty minutes before the light hits the glade. If you want your shot—"
"I'm coming, I'm coming." I adjust my camera bag and push forward. "Lead on, mountain guide."
The climb gets steeper, my breath coming in sharp pants that create little clouds in the cold air. Victor doesn't speak, but occasionally he glances back, making sure I'm still there. Once, when I slip on loose rock, his hand shoots out to steady me—warm, strong fingers wrapping around my upper arm for just a moment before releasing.
After what feels like hours but is probably only forty minutes, the trail levels out and the trees thin. Victor stops so abruptly I nearly crash into his back.
"We're here," he says quietly.
I step around him and freeze.
The glade opens before us, a perfect circular clearing ringed by pines. Dawn light has just begun to creep over the eastern ridge, painting everything in gold and rose. And carpeting the ground, as far as I can see, are wildflowers—blues and purples and yellows and whites, nodding gently in the morning breeze. The mist hovers just above them, catching the light, making the whole scene look like something from a fairytale.
"Oh my God," I whisper.
Victor says nothing.
I'm already moving, camera raised, trying to capture the interplay of light and color and mist. I circle the glade, shooting from different angles, changing lenses, dropping to my knees for a closer perspective. The world narrows to this frame, this moment, this light.
When I finally pause to check my shots, I realize Victor has settled on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing. He's just... watching me.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
He shakes his head. "Nothing."
"No, really. What?"
"You're... different when you work," he says after a moment. "Focused. Quiet."
"Oh." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Is that good or bad?"
"Just different."
I join him on the log, leaving space between us. The light has shifted now, warming from gold to yellow as the sun clears the ridge. My fingers itch to keep shooting, but something in the moment feels significant.
"My dad used to say I was born noisy," I say, surprising myself with the admission. "That I came out of the womb with something to say."
Victor's expression shifts at the mention of my father. "You were talkative, even as a kid."
